


Need to Know Basis

by BrotatochipDG



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Blood Gulch, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Or at Least Simmons Thinks So, Unrequited Love, biggest fear, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrotatochipDG/pseuds/BrotatochipDG
Summary: Dick Simmons never needed to know much about anyone else. First names, faces, and especially not anything personal like fears or dreams. Well, until Grif gets half of Simmons’ face, and Simmons gets his greatest fear realized.





	Need to Know Basis

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fic posted here, so of course it had to be Grimmons. Deals with homophobia, repressed thoughts, and mentions of abuse.

In Blood Gulch, there wasn’t much need for friendship. Do your job, keep your head down, and try not to get caught up too far in one of Sarge’s schemes.

It was kind of funny to Simmons how that’s all the commanding officer was to him. The color red, a boiling temper, and the name ‘Sarge.’ I mean, he worshiped the man as a father, and he didn’t even know what his real name was.

When Simmons first felt the rare courage to ask his leader a question, it was about his real name. 

The reply was unhelpful, but that was to be expected.

“It’s on a need to know basis, Simmons. And all you NEED to know is how to kill those damn dirty blues!”

The ‘need to know’ rules had always been ingrained into Simmons, so it wasn’t anything new to follow here. His dad had similar rules when he was growing up.

He didn’t need to know Simmons’ hopes, or dreams, or true talents. Or fears. And nobody else needed to know these things either, because if things people didn’t NEED to know came spilling out, it’d be the virtual end of the world for Simmons because order and balance and his protective outer shell would all be lost.

So when he first met Grif, and he first met Donut, and through every interaction he had with the Blues, he pretended that he didn’t care about anything. Or any of them.

It was easy in some cases. “Suck it Blues!,” and missed shots with his rifle and pointed looks in the other direction when Caboose inevitably cried or did something endearingly stupid but kindhearted were all easy. 

Sure, if you swam down deep to the bottom and most hidden parts of his psyche, he cared for the big idiot. But it was easy to repress that shit. He’d repressed worse.

A slightly harder one to ignore was Donut. Donut pleading his freshly painted nails were a “lightish-red!” and decorating the base with tiny little potted plants he watered with care and magazines left open and dog-eared to pages he thought Simmons would like. Donut and his sincerity and open-ness and his nonjudgemental attitude. 

Donut who, despite Simmons and the others showing him nothing but contempt, cared for everyone at that base. Simmons was the expert on repressing shit, sure, but Donut was an expert at digging things up that should’ve been left buried.

Hardest yet (god it’s clear he cares for Tucker deep down too because a little Bow-chicka-bow-wow rings in his head with those words) was Grif. 

Lazy, whiny, selfish Grif who leaves trash on the counter and smokes inside of his helmet and eats half of Simmons MRE’s. 

Grif who snores so loud Simmons can hear it through the walls, Grif who leaves sticky stains on his armor that Simmons has to fight the urge to clean off, Grif who did laundry once and tinted all of their fatigues orange so that he’d never be asked to do it again.

Grif who tells Simmons to take breaks. Grif who reminds Simmons he hadn’t eaten yet that day, idiot, so he’d better do so before he takes the rest of it for himself. Grif who sits in silence for hours before whispering out a “why are we here” that sends Simmons’ brain spiraling in a loop for days.

Sometimes Simmons stared so hard at Grifs’ visor he swore he can almost see the eyes behind it. 

It was hardest to pretend to hate Grif. It was hardest to keep up this bullshit with him, but it was the most important, so Simmons kept that shit locked down. 

Well, he did until Grif almost died.

Panicked, he ripped off his helmet and took in big gulps of air and started pulling at his hair while pacing back and forth.

“S-S-Sarge you-you, oh god oh,” Simmons couldn’t breathe so he couldn’t talk right, “SAVE HIM d-damn it can’t you j-j-just oh god.”

He paced in the bathroom, and as he went to turn on the tap to wash his face he saw clumps of red hair in his fists, and damn he should’ve taken his whole suit off because his hands were not normally strong enough to do that without the armor.

He heard a soft click and gasped in breath, even more panicked now that someone was entering a room he was panicking in.

It was Donut, of course, and he rushed over to Simmons and began shushing him.

“You’ll be okay. Have faith in Sarge! You know he wants this whole cyborg thing to work out, so it will! Maybe out of sheer willpower and luck, but that hasn’t let Sarge down before! You’re not likely to die on that table, Simmons.”

He didn’t understand. 

“No, D-D-Donut. Noooot meeeee,” Simmons was wheezing out his words, barely able to manage a coherent sentence.

Donut’s eyes softened. 

“Oh, Simmons. Sarge may not show it, but he cares enough about Grif that he’d never actually let him die. Or, at least, he cares that Red team has more members than Blue team does. Grif will be okay.”

Simmons looked to Donut for reassurance, and the soft smile and blonde locks curling into kind eyes finally helped calm him down.

“We gotta go now, Simmons. We don’t have a lot of time. I know you’re scared for him, but this has to happen right now. I promise he will be fine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grif opened bleary eyes, confused and disoriented, until he remembered the events from earlier that month. 

Simmons had given up...a lot. And it had saved him. And he was grateful, because this meant he’d live to eat Oreos again, and see Kaikaina again, and play his ukulele again (although he’d have to teach these new fingers how to do so).

But now, in the mirror, was a broken reflection. 

Ugly, raised scars travelled his entire body. Pasty white skin was pulled taut in places it shouldn’t be. His chocolate brown eye on the left didn’t match the jarring green one on the right. His arms were different sizes, and so were his legs. 

Grabbing things was hard, and walking was too. His heart (or Simmons’ heart?) pumped blood into organs and limbs that weren’t his before and it was incredibly painful. 

So instead of thanking Simmons like any normal person would do, he sits there as Simmons sits in front of him sobbing and apologizing, and accepts it like it is a normal thing to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Grif woke up for the first time, there was only screaming. Sarge was aiming a shotgun at his head and was about to pull the trigger when Simmons slammed his fist into the Hawaiian’s face, knocking him unconscious. 

The next time, he only sat and cried soft whimpers while Simmons stroked his hair with awkward fingers and tried to rub soothing circles in his arm with a robotic hand he didn’t understand yet.

It went on like that for awhile, and once Simmons realized Grif wasn’t remembering any of the times he woke up he was both grateful and worried. 

He was grateful because Grif wouldn’t remember the time Simmons began to cry too, because he realized he may have never heard Grifs voice again. He wouldn’t remember the time Simmons told him about the day his dad broke a bunch of his ribs and he was in excruciating pain in the hospital at 9 years old for holding hands with the neighbor boy. He wouldn’t remember the time he absentmindedly kissed his forehead as he drifted off to sleep.

After a month of sitting by his bedside and worrying over him, Grif woke up. For real. Not for a couple of hours to scream or cry or mumble incoherent rants. Awake, and hungry again, and barely aware of what had happened to him.

Simmons left him alone, because this time wasn’t one where he could slip up . There couldn’t be a repeat of the kiss, or the many times he’d softly brushed his hair out of Grif’s eyes, or when he gently shaved his face because he knew Grif hated when it got scratchy.

He had to go back to repression. But not before he did one thing.

Simmons barged into Grifs’ room, already softly crying but unwilling to back down this time, and sat in the edge of his bed.

“I’m so sorry, Grif,” Simmons sobbed, wringing his hands, “you shouldn’t have to go through this. I can’t imagine... I’m just...I’m sorry. So sorry.”

After a slight nod from Grif, face stoic and fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, Simmons got up and rushed out of the room.

Simmons ran up to a cliff side, forgetting it was a fucking war for the first time since he got to Blood Gulch and completely forgetting to change out of his fatigues and into his armor. 

As he rushed up there, maybe to cry some more or scream or something equally as embarrassing, he was shocked at what he saw.

Sitting in a little cave entrance on the cliff side was Donut, wearing his faded jeans and ‘lightish red” t-shirt, next to what Simmons assumed to be Tucker, although he’d never seen his face before. He was wearing his armor, but his helmet was off and he was smiling widely at something Donut had said.

“Oh, man, Donut. I almost can’t say Bow-chicka-bow-wow around you anymore.I’d have to say it every five seconds.”

Simmons didn’t realize he’d kept walking forward at the sight until he heard the crunch of a rock splitting beneath his bionic foot.

Both men whirled around at the sound, but Donut visibly relaxed at the sight. 

“Oh, Simmons! Come join us.”

“That’s Simmons?” Tucker doubled over in laughter. “For such a nerd, you’re kinda fit, dude. Plus the robot eye is wicked cool.”

Simmons just sat there, mouth gaping, and unable to move a muscle.

“Donut! You.. you’re fraternizing with the enemy! What if Sarge found out about this? Now I know! That’ll make me an accomplice! Oh, what do I do?”

Tucker just started laughing even harder, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Oh, relax, you stupid Red. Donuts my friend, we’ve been friends for years and Sarge has never caught us before. Nobody has. Except Caboose once but I told him we were playing hide and seek and accidentally hid in the same spot and he ran off to go join the game.”

Simmons still eyed Tucker warily, until Tucker rolled his eyes and explained further.

“Okay, okay, it’s just nice to have someone else LGBT to talk to in this canyon. Being bi means more opportunity if you catch my drift, but it doesn’t always feel the best to talk about, especially in the army,” Tucker’s hard eyes softened before he spoke again, “and who else here could do my hair like this?”

Simmons, shocked at Tuckers confession, looked up and noticed for the first time that Donut was working on a perfect set of box braids, and holy shit Tucker’s hair was so long how the hell did it ever fit inside his helmet?

“You’re...gay? And Donut? Are you...gay together?”

Simmons voice raised in pitch with every word.

“Bi, dude. Can’t get that shit wrong, it’s kind of offensive. And also DUH Donut is gay. I mean, come on man. But no, we aren’t together. Being gay doesn’t mean you wanna bang every dude in your proximity.”

“Unless you’re Tucker,” Donut interjected, “he kind of does want that with every human being on this planet. And every planet.”

Tucker scoffed in offense, “Oh come off it, Donut. I tell you ONE TIME that I thought about fucking Church, and all I get in return is ridicule.”

Simmons brain felt like it was short circuiting, and like if he tried hard enough he could wake up from this confusing dream (or nightmare, because clear lines he had before were being crossed and he did NOT like it.)

“ I, uh, that’s. That’s gross. I uh, I don’t really wanna hear about that shit,” Simmons squeaked out.

Tucker’s eyes turned cold.

“It ain’t gross, dude. And Donut is no different. And if you think for one second I’m gonna put up with that homophobic bullshi-“

Donut put a hand on Tucker’s shoulder and shushed him.

“Tucker, don’t. Simmons doesn’t really...know better. He couldn’t have. He wasn’t...raised in a very understanding way.”

Simmons eyes widened. And he realized that the wall between Grifs’ room and his was thin enough to hear snoring, so the wall between Donuts and Grifs must be just as thin.

Donut knew. He knew, and the ‘need to know’ line had been so far fucking crossed in so many ways, and now Tucker knew too.

Simmons, for the second time that day, began to sob.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grif felt like shit. Yes, his body felt like shit because that was kind of a given now, but now he felt like a shitty person. Because sitting there for a while after Simmons had come in bawling, he started to remember waking up before.

He remembered Simmons worried face, green eye darting around to see if he was okay and tears flowing from the only side of his face that could produce them anymore.

He remembered soft lips brushing his forehead, sweaty hair being pushed out of his face, and the gentle glide of a razor over his skin.

He remembered a 9 year old boy that’d been told he was broken his whole life, and Grifs’ gut turned.

Broken was a stupid word, and he had used it to describe himself without understanding that he wasn’t even close. Broken was a closeted man who’d been looking for approval his whole life without ever gaining a sliver of it. Broken was a man who underwent major surgery, losing organs and an eye and a lot of his old self, and could only think about Grif. Broken was a man who sacrificed more than any one else ever would’ve for a man like Grif, and apologized because he still felt it wasn’t enough.

Grif felt like the fucking scum of the Earth, because he let his best friend, the only person on this world or any other who cared that much about him, go while still thinking poorly of himself.

He still couldn’t walk, still couldn’t get out of bed, and he knew Donut wasn’t there so he couldn’t tell for him, either. He just had to sit and wait for his best friend to come back.

Grif had a lot of repressed shit to tell him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Donut let go of the strand of hair he was holding and rushed over to Simmons, looping an arm around his shoulders and walking him gently inside the small cave.

“Oh, Simmons. I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it, I know you hate to...”

Tucker looked at the scene, eyes wide, and stood. 

“Shit, dude. I uh, don’t really know what’s going on. But I can leave if you need. I’ll... come back later. Finish this up,” he pointed at his half-braided hair before putting his helmet back on and jogging back toward Blue base. 

Donut waved goodbye before turning back to Simmons and wrapping him in a tight hug.

Simmons shrieked and tried to push him off at first, then relaxed into his arms. Of course Donut would give fucking amazing hugs.

“I, uh, I’ll talk about it. I um. I assume you heard me talking to Grif?”

Donut looked confused, and shook his head.

“Talking to Grif about what?”

Simmons pulled back and looked into Donuts eyes.

“About... my dad?”

Donut tensed his jaw and his brow furrowed. 

“Simmons, I just know you weren’t allowed to be who you are because of how I used to be. A farm on Iowa isnt really the most ideal place to realize you’re gay. I know the signs of repression. What did you talk to Grif about?”

Simmons let out a hiccup and a soft, crazed laugh.

“You didn’t even hear... oh god. Okay. So, kind of a long story, but. Um. I was feeling so bad about Grif, he had been crying and in pain and was mumbling about how I’d probably never felt anything like it.... and I told him about the time I kind of did. Well. Not as bad, obviously. Uh,” Simmons drew in a breath before his story, “so I was 9. And next door to us was this kid my age, Lucas. And uh. He as nice, and had Star Trek figurines and I had a crush on him. He had a nice laugh and I didn’t really...know better. I kissed him on the cheek and he said ‘we’re boyfriends now!’ And we left his house holding hands to walk to the park. My dad, uh. My dad saw. He..he. Uh,”

Donut’s gaze grew fierce as tears started leaking from Simmons’ eyes again. 

“Simmons, you don’t have to...”

“He spit in my face. When I first came home. Said he didn’t want any ‘fag trash pretending to be his son.’ And he uh, he kicked me. Hard. And I fell against a wall, and he hit me in the chest until I passed out. I had a few broken ribs, and, uh. And my arm. He told. He told the nurses something about me falling. I don’t remember.”

Donut gripped him back into a hug, holding him until Simmons stopped crying. 

“Simmons. Simmons! I’m so sorry about your dad. I really am. But you have to know it isn’t like that here. We love you and will support you. Your dad was wrong about a lot of things, okay?”

Simmons pulled away from the hug with tears streaming down his face.

“I uh, I know that. I’ve kind of always know that. But the habit is to repress, ya know?”

He chuckled darkly.

“Keep everything on a need to know basis.”

Donut eyed him worriedly.

“Your life is private, Dick. You never have to tell anyone something you don’t want to. But we do want to know. All of us. Grif included.”

Simmons stiffened at the larger mans name.

“I uh, I know. But I kinda want to tell Grif. Well I already did, but uh. I want to tell him other stuff too.”

He shyly glanced up at Donut, who was trying to suppress the biggest grin of all time.

“Oh! Of course! Other stuff too. I’m sure he’ll be... very happy to hear,” he said with a wink.

Simmons blushed deeply, and wished he was wearing his helmet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grif, for maybe the first time in his entire life, absolutely hated that he was in bed doing nothing.

It had been hours since Simmons had left, and the image of his guilt ridden, teary face was burned into his memory. 

He’d been thinking of scenarios for when Simmons came back. 

Grif would start out apologizing profusely, shushing Simmons if he tried to say anything.

Or maybe he’d demand he come over to his bed, and he’d kiss him senseless first. 

Or maybe he’d do the scariest thing of all and tell him he loved him, and was so infinitely glad he was still here to be around him, and that nothing would ever get in the way of Grif loving him more than he loved goddamn Oreos. Okay, or maybe equal to Oreos. He’d work on it.

But thinking only gets a man so far, and Grif was practically ready to just flop himself out of bed and army crawl to wherever in the fuck Simmons was.

Just as he was contemplating how best to throw himself off of the bed without literally killing himself in the process, Simmons opened the door, and softly walked into his room.

“Oh thank FUCK, okay, Simmons, I’m so fuckin’ happy to see you man, okay first off all you really did not nee-“ 

Before he could get into a rant about Simmons unnecessary apology, Simmons began to speak.

“Grif! I. I um. I have to talk to you first. I really need to get some stuff off of my chest. I had some...stuff happen when I was younger and I have to talk about it.”

Grif closed his eyes, pained expression evident on his face. 

“Simmons. I uh, kinda remember that, buddy. I’m real sorry you ever had to go through that. In Hawaii, it wasn’t really that hard for me. Nobody was there to tell me I was wrong, so I never had that experience, but I don’t think my mom would’ve really minded anyway. So I. Yeah. That really sucks.”

Simmons eyes were wide as fucking plates. 

“In...Hawaii? What, uh, what wasn’t hard for you?” His voice squeaked out.

“Being bi, Simmons. It was just kinda how life was. Kai was pan so we both just understood each other.”

Simmons looked like he might cry again, so Grif tried to backtrack.

“I’m sorry Simmons. I promise I’m not bragging or anything, you’re just not alone, you know? Plus there’s Donu-“

Before he could finish, he felt a mouth pressed against his. Simmons kissed him gently, like he might fall apart (which honestly, he might, who knew how solid Sarge’s stitchwork was) and softly threaded his fingers into his hair. Grif, who was surprised enough to be shocked still, began to move just as Simmons started to pull away. Grif brought his arm up around Simmons, pulling him into the bed and pulling his leg around to straddle him.

Simmons let out a soft sigh, and moved his lips from Grifs’ mouth to his neck, peppering it with soft kisses along the seam where his old skin met Grifs’. Grif let out a whimper and pulled Simmons back to look at him.

“Simmons. I. I kinda love you. And you didn’t need to apologize to me. You gave me everything, dude. I’m alive because of you.”

Simmons lips slowly spread into a beaming smile, then he started to laugh.

“You stupid fatass. That’s the worst confession I’ve ever heard. ‘I kinda love you.’ Oh my god.” He started to laugh again, and only stopped when Grif growled and pulled his face down again, pressing his lips firmly against the lanky mans and licking his tongue into Simmons mouth. Simmons moaned into the kiss and pulled off again.

“I, uh,” Simmons sheepishly began, “ I kinda love you too.”

They spent the rest of the night intertwined, with Simmons finally realizing that repressing shit keeps people from some pretty great things.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I know it got kind of sad and dark there but that’s just how my mood took it. I didn’t wanna hurt him, I promise. It just happened. My first fic basically HAD to be RVB, because it’s the majority of what I read these days. There’s definitely a Tucker/Wash coming up next, but I had to start out with the only couple even more hopeless than they are.


End file.
